Then he lifted her limp hand, and patting
the back of it gently, turned on the crowd. His lips were still
working. It was evident he was trying to say something.
"Naybours," the words came at last, in the old dull tone; "I'd as
lief you hadn' thought o' this."
He paused for a moment, gulped down something in his throat, and went
on--
"I wudn' say you didn' mean it for the best, an' thankin' you kindly.
But you didn' know her. Roughness, if I may say, was never no good
wi' her. It must ha' been very hard for her to die like this, axin
your parden, for she wasn' one to bear pain."
Another long pause.
"No, she cudn' bear pain. P'raps _he_ might ha' stood it better--
though o' course you acted for the best, an' thankin' you kindly.
I'd as lief take her home now, naybours, if 'tis all the same."
He lifted the body in his arms, and carried it pretty steadily down
the quay steps to his market-boat, that was moored below.
Two minutes later he had pushed off and was rowing it quietly
homewards.
There is no more to say, except that the woman recovered. She had
fainted, I suppose, as they pulled her out. Anyhow, These-an'-That
restored her to life--and she ran away the very next week with the
gamekeeper.
III--"DOUBLES" AND QUITS.
Here is a story from Troy, containing two ghosts and a moral.
I found it, only last week, in front of a hump-backed cottage that
the masons are pulling down to make room for the new Bank.
Pages:
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77